


Sorry About Dinner

by Maakason



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:11:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maakason/pseuds/Maakason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Gordon knew loss, but this feeling was far more dangerous. This was insanity.<br/>Sequel to "Naivete'".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry About Dinner

Jim stood in front of the small, curtained window, readying himself for the worst. He thought back to why he was here, maybe still trying to convince himself that this wasn’t really supposed to be happening to him. But he hadn’t imagined that conversation with Harvey in the precinct.

_He’d been working through a pile of his partner’s untouched case reports-- a consequence of thinking he stood a chance against Harvey when it came to drinking games. He’d heard the slow shuffle of the older man’s footsteps behind him, and had mistaken his hesitance for stealth._

_“If you think you’re adding another file to this stack, think again,” He warned good naturedly._

_“Jim.”_

_And it was the way that he’d said his name that made him look up. That cautious tone, like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say-- already trying to talk him down before he’d even broken the news. Even then, it wasn’t until he saw the look on his partner’s face that the smile Jim had been sporting slipped away._

_“What?” Jim asked warily, though a part of him already knew exactly what that expression meant. It was the one reserved for breaking the news to a soon to be grieving widow._

_“What?” He’d demanded, voice more panicked with each passing second Harvey spent staring at him. But he just kept staring, that sickeningly familiar look of pity etched onto his face. “Jim, I'm so sorry.”_

"When you're ready, my assistant is going to lift up the curtain," The doctor murmured. His name tag said Jones. He was middle aged and balding, his lab coat a blinding white under the harsh lights of the morgue. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call short, but when he brought a reassuring hand up to rest on the cop's shoulder, his arm was at level with his receding hairline.

Jim nodded, just once, signaling that they could show him the body. And in that moment, that’s all that it was. Not a warm living thing that he had once known, but a cold lifeless corpse that could’ve belonged to anyone-- certainly not to _him_.

The curtain parted with a soft swish, and for a moment Jim felt that familiar _jolt_ of having missed a step on a long flight of stairs. He could see another doctor now—this one a mousy young female, with long brown hair-- standing over a silver trolley and a large dark blue sheet molded into the vague form of a body. She placed her hands on its crisp edges, right above the outline of what had to have been the head of the body. Its hair could just be made out beyond her gloved fingers; a jet black that seemed achingly familiar. But it was still an _it_. There was still a chance that they had called the wrong person; that they had identified the wrong person. It was all just a big misunderstanding.

She pulled the sheet back.

_‘Oh God’._

Jim closed his eyes, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop the images already burning themselves into his memory.

He’d always had pale skin, but the lack of blood circulating through his body had turned it translucent; his lips—the only truly colorful thing about him—had gone a dark purple. Even his hair was different; his once erratic locks, now newly washed, lay flat on his head. Somehow, this seemed to be more of a violation than anything.

“What happened?” the cop whispered.

“He was shot in the back of the head; they think it was the work of a rival gang…The bullet went straight through his prefrontal cortex—his brain would’ve stopped functioning immediately. Odds are he didn’t even feel it when--” Jones cut off his ramblings abruptly, mouth opening then closing. He looked down, not seeming to know how to conduct himself. “I’m sorry sir.”

Jim looked at the body again. His hand came up as if to reach out, only to hit the glass in front of him.

“Where was he, when...” The cop trailed off, unable to finish, but the doctor was able to fill in the gaps.

“He’d been alone; it seems that his usual security detail had been sent away for the evening. A homeless woman found him in an alley right outside of Chinatown.”

_‘What the hell was he doing in Chinatown?’_

Jim couldn’t fathom why the mobster would’ve gone anywhere without protection. He must’ve known the danger he was putting himself in.

“Is there anyone else you’d like to call? Perhaps a parent, or-“

“His mother died three years ago,” Jim interrupted. Looking at Oswald now, he was somehow glad that that was the case. He knew that the mobster would’ve hated for Gertrud to see him go out like this. Up until the day she died—lung cancer, of all things— he had tried his hardest to shield her from the world he really belonged to. Though for all his power, and all his prestige, it seemed that no one else could be bothered to come down here and identify him.

“I’m all he’s got.”

Despite the pallor of his skin, Oswald almost looked like he was sleeping. Like at any moment, he would open his eyes, and demand to know why he was in this place.

_“You thought I was_ what _? Are you blind, or just willfully ignorant?”_  The cop felt himself smile at the thought.

That’s when he saw it; a slight jerking movement of the mobster’s chest. Jim’s heart skipped a beat. He waited another anxiety laden moment, and—there! It was subtle, but he could definitely see Oswald’s chest move again as he took in a faint breath.

“Did you see that?” he breathed.

“See what?”

Jones, still standing next to him, seemed confused.

“His chest moved.”

“...Mr. Gordon,--”

“I know what I saw!” Jim said, more urgently now. “We need to help him.” If Oswald was still alive, he’d need medical attention immediately. He didn’t have time to argue.

“Mr. Gordon, you’ve just experienced a terrible trauma, perhaps it’d be best if-- Mr. Gordon you can’t go in there!”

But Jim wasn’t listening. He barged through the door adjacent to the curtained window, making his way to Oswald.

_‘If I can just get to him, I can--’_

He stopped in front of the silver cart, leaning over the mobster’s prone form. The female doctor from earlier, still in the room, began to slowly back away from him and out the door, but Jim wasn’t focused on her.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Open your eyes.”

And he did. Those soft blue orbs stared up at him, dim but still full of life. Oswald was alive, and he was smiling up at him softly.

“Hi.”

Jim laughed, vision blurring minutely, before he forced the tears away.

“Hey.”

Oswald’s brow furrowed slightly, his face troubled.

“Jim, I can’t move.”

“It’s okay.” The cop moved to prop him up, and at that moment doctor Jones reappeared, along with two security guards.

“Mr. Gordon, you need to come with-- Jesus Christ!”

Jim turned excitedly to look at them, glad that they could finally see that Oswald was fine, and that everything was okay. But none of them were focused on the mobster. Instead, they were all looking straight at Jim, hands raised and eyes blown out in fear. It was then that Jim realized that he was holding his gun. He couldn’t remember when he’d taken it out, but at that point it didn’t matter. Clearly, the doctor wasn’t going to help them.

“Leave.” he warned, his finger pointedly grazing the trigger. It got the message across.

As the men quickly filed out of the room, Jim began to hurriedly go through cabinets and drawers until he found what he was looking for.

“What are you doing?” Oswald questioned. He was sitting on the cart now, but his body was slumped forward as if he were struggling to remain upright.

Jim held up a pair of green scrubs as an answer and came to stand in front of his former lover.

“Sorry it’s not your usual black,” he joked.

Oswald rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile. Jim dressed him as quickly as he could, but the process was delayed a bit as every time the pair’s eyes met, Jim would be compelled to stop what he was doing and kiss him.

Just as the cop was preparing to pick the smaller man up, his eye caught something shimmering underneath the trolley. He stooped down to pick it up, and when he saw what it was his chest ached. He stood up and held the ring out to Oswald, its long chain trailing over his palm; it must’ve been jostled by Jim’s earlier rummaging around. For a moment the two just stared at the ring, just as immaculate as the day Jim had chosen it in that shop what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“I wasn’t sure you’d kept it,” he said finally.

“Of course I did.”

Jim carefully placed the ring around Oswald’s neck, his hand resting for a moment where it lay against the man’s heart. At the cool feel of skin where the deep v neck of the scrubs plummeted, he remembered himself. The cop returned to his earlier task of picking up the self proclaimed king of Gotham. It was trickier, as he was trying to keep hold of his gun as well, but he managed.

“What are you going to do?”   

“I’m gonna get us out of here.”

With that, the two quickly made their way out of the room, only slowing at the door to check for people. It seemed that the entire floor had been cleared out, because they encountered no one on their way to the elevator. The doors opened slowly and Jim stepped inside, only struggling a little to push the correct button. Oswald was too weak to hold on to him at all, but that was okay. He had him. As the doors shut, Jim buried his face in Oswald’s hair; it smelled different-- no doubt because of whatever cheap bar soap they used in the morgue.

“I missed you,” Jim said, his voice interrupting the constant _‘ding’_ of the elevator that indicated their ascension. “I knew it that day you came back to my place, but I didn’t know what to say or how to--”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

Jim smiled at this. His grip on the mobster tightened.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

The brevity of the silence was enunciated by two cheery _‘dings’_.

“Do you remember that little place we used to steal off to— in the early years I mean? The one with the ratty chairs and the terrible food?”

“One of the waiters spilled a whole pitcher of tea on you,” Jim said, chuckling slightly at the memory.”Why did we keep going there?”

“Back then, it was the one place we could go and not have to worry about Gotham.”

The cop hummed in agreement.

“And the music wasn’t that bad either.” Jim could picture the restaurant in his mind, but the memory was hazy. “Where was that place again?”

“I don’t remember,” Oswald said, and Jim ignored the hesitance in his voice, like the mobster really did know and just didn’t want to say.

“We should go there once this is finished,” the cop said, already looking towards the future.

“I love you.”

Jim inhaled sharply. God, that had been the one thing he’d been thinking about on his way from the precinct. That he would never get to hear those words from this person ever again.

“I love you too.”

Two flights later, they were in the main lobby. They’d made it halfway to the exit when Harvey called out.

“Jim. You’ve gotta stop this.”

The cop in question had reacted too late to the sound of his partner, and the elevator doors had closed before he could think about turning back.

The doctors must’ve called the police; there was a small army of officers just beyond Harvey, all with their guns drawn. They weren’t too far from where Jim stood now, but they had positioned themselves in a way that’d made it impossible to see them from the elevator. Smart; if it were any other situation, Jim would be commending them-- probably even standing beside them. Not today.

“I won’t let him die, Harvey. There’s nothing you can say that’s gonna stop me from walking out that door.”

Harvey just looked at him, and it was that same look he’d had before, when he told Jim that--

“He’s dead Jimbo. You’re carrying a corpse.”

“What’s he talking about, Jim?” Oswald whispered.

“What are you talking about?” Jim echoed, but angrier. “He’s fine! Can’t you hear him?”

“Jim, listen to what you’re saying.” Harvey began to edge closer. “He was shot in the head.”

“Don’t come any closer,” Jim warned. His gun hand twitched as upward as it could without dropping Oswald. Immediately, a good three dozen of the cops behind Harvey cocked their weapons.

“Hold your fire!” Harvey said sharply. He continued to move towards his partner until they were only a few feet apart. “Jim look at him; He’s dead.”

“Why does he keep saying that Jim?”

“Stop,” Jim murmured.

“Jim, wake up man.”

“Jim we need to leave this place; don’t let them take me away.”

Stop it,” the cop said again, louder.

“Jim.”

“Jim!”

_‘Jim.’_

Stop it,” Gordon practically shouted, angling his gun toward Harvey.

A slew of warnings came from the cops just beyond them.

“Drop your weapon!”

“We will shoot!”

“Drop the gun Gordon!”

“Everyone calm down,” Harvey shouted, turning towards the other officers just for a moment. He quickly spun back around to face Jim though, his eyes pleading with him. “Snap out of it man, and think for a second. If he’s alive, why isn’t he breathing?”

“But,” he said feebly. “He was breathing, earlier…”

“Jim _think_. You’re holding him; Can you feel him breathing now?”

Jim thought back. He didn’t want to, but now he could see clearly the things his mind had been willfully ignoring earlier. Like the fact that he hadn’t felt a single breath come from the mobster since the two he’d seen in the beginning. Had he really seen it? No, of course he had; he’d been talking to him-- he’d opened his eyes for chrissake-

“Listen to me buddy. Can you feel his heartbeat?”

Jim went back to that moment, when he’d rested his hand on Oswald’s chest. He hadn’t felt anything but too cool skin. He didn’t feel anything now.

“Jim,” Harvey said softly. “Look at him.”

He did. Oswald’s eyes were closed, his head lolling lifeless and unsupported; he wasn’t breathing. Jim looked up at his partner, vision obscured by unshed tears.

“Harvey?” he whispered, lost.

“It’s okay.” His partner stepped forward, putting his hands on either side of Oswald’s body. “I got him.”

Jim’s hold on the former mobster tightened instinctively, but he allowed the man to be taken from him. A strangled sound escaped his lips as the mobster was pulled out of his arms, and the cop had to lean into his partner to keep from sinking to the ground. He leaned even further still so that he could clutch onto Oswald, his face buried in the dead man’s shirt. His shoulders heaved with uncontrollable burst of breath, but he was suffocating.

“I can’t,” he repeated, over and over again. "I can't."

“It’s gonna to be okay,” Harvey told him.

But he knew; nothing would ever really be okay again. No one was meant to survive this sort of pain. A destroyed, mangled wail bounced off of the echoing walls of the building, and it was only then that Jim realized he was screaming.

**……………………**

A year later, Jim sits alone in a small restaurant in Chinatown. The chairs are ratty and the food is terrible, but the music reminds him of home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So if you've ever seen Sherlock, there's this great instrumental that they use in "A Scandal in Belgravia". It was my inspiration for this fic, and I would fully recommend listening to it, just because....it's beautiful. Also, this work is dedicated to J, who recently lost someone very close to them. My heart goes out.
> 
> “Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Here's what really happens: The spaces between the times you miss them grow longer. Then, when you do remember to miss them again, it's still with a stabbing pain to the heart. And you have guilt. Guilt because it's been too long since you missed them last.”  
> \--Kristin O'Donnell Tubb, The 13th Sign


End file.
